


Head Injuries Cause Zombies (Post Hoc Ergo and All That)

by soupypictures



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen, M/M, Oakland Athletics, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupypictures/pseuds/soupypictures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Brandon McCarthy’s brain injury gives him a somewhat supernatural power (a baffling prescience that he’s not sure he can trust) that helps him keep his loved ones safe when the world ends. Or, the zombie apocalypse manifests during Spring Training 2013 and Brandon McCarthy’s instinct is to find his teammates. From Oakland. But it’s not really about Brandon McCarthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Injuries Cause Zombies (Post Hoc Ergo and All That)

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Spring Training 2013. There was this idea I had about getting the band back together again, but that it could only happen in the apocalypse. I got them as far as BMac's rental house. Somewhere I wrote about Huston Street's death, omg.

Brandon McCarthy @BMcCarthy32  
Pretending to listen to my wife talk about her friend’s visit with her grandmother at the convalescence home. No, she didn’t call it that.

“Brandon, you’re tweeting about me, aren’t you?”

“You could find that out for yourself, you know.”

“Well fine then, I won’t tell you the interesting part of this story.”

“No, go ahead, I’m listening .”

“No, you tell your followers that you’re going to listen to me now, or I’ll call you out on that movie you were watching the other night.”

Brandon McCarthy @BMcCarthy32  
Okay guys, now I’m really going to listen.

 

“Wait, so her grandmother bit her?”

“Yeah, she said that she looked dead, but that’s kind of normal for her grandmother, right, because she’s like a hundred and fifty years old, but then her eyes just opened up and she bit her arm.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she got out of there pretty fast and got a nurse to look at it. Her grandmother didn’t have many teeth, so it wasn’t too bad of a bite. But here’s the really weird part—“

“That wasn’t the weird part?”

“No, so the really weird part is now her grandmother is missing. She just like, walked out of the nursing home or something. She’s gone.”

“Smells like a lawsuit to me.”

Amanda shrugs, then pulls the blanket over her legs and Hobbes. “I’m gonna text her, see what’s up.”

Brandon frowns. “You do that.”

\--

The next morning, Brandon rolls out of bed and sees that Amanda’s phone is flashing, an indication that she’s got a waiting text message. He swipes open the screen and sees that it’s from her friend with the grandma-bite on her arm.

Hey girl I’m actually not feeling very well, got a fever. I’m going to the doctor for some antibiotics. Love you!

Brandon marks the message unread and turns back to his sleeping wife. Hobbes is sprawled on the blankets, feet twitching as she dreams about chasing grasshoppers and rats. That’s what Brandon figures she’s dreaming about, anyway. 

\--

Brandon walks through the home clubhouse at Phoenix Municipal and nods his hellos to the guys he hasn’t met, but he has a mission. He hasn’t been able to get the unsettled feeling out of his stomach since his wife so nonchalantly related to him the story of her friend and the vicious bite. Knowing that the woman now has a fever and has been admitted to the hospital isn’t helping to settle his uneasiness.

His mission is to find Sean Doolittle. He’s not sure what is prompting him to _need_ to talk to him so badly, but he doesn’t feel like squashing that instinct in himself. This doesn’t feel like the time for ignoring his gut.

He spots Doolittle engaged in a conversation with Blackley. Doolittle is gesticulating emphatically and Blackley is standing in front of him, nodding along and completely engaged in whatever it is they’re discussing. As he nears them, Brandon can begin to hear their conversation over the din of a clubhouse before a game.

“So the Centers for Disease Control are releasing these warnings about antibiotic-resistant superbugs that, if left unchecked, could take out whole hospitals. Maybe even more.”

“And the press release says that? Taking out whole hospitals?”

“Well no, I’m extrapolating. But these bacteria can transfer their drug resistance to other bacteria in their family. Imagine what kind of havoc that could wreak. Oh hey, McCarthy!” After a round of hugs and how-are-yous, Doolittle starts in again on his diatribe. “I was telling Trav here about the CDC’s warnings about the superbugs. It’s fucking scary, man, and no one’s paying it any attention.”

“Why d’you expect ‘em to? What are we going to do about it? The CDC is on it, mate.” Blackley seems dubious.

Doolittle shrugs, then turns suddenly to fully face Brandon. “Hey so, I just realized that you really aren’t supposed to be here. What’s up? Need something?” Doolittle asks.

“Actually, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah? What about?”

Brandon looks from Doolittle to Blackley and realizes that he’s going to have to say his piece for both of them to avoid drawing any more undue attention.

“Amanda has this friend who went to visit her grandmother at the nursing home. Her grandmother looked dead, but then she suddenly opened her eyes and just lunged and bit her on the arm.”

“Bit Amanda?” Blackley lilts, shock in his voice.

“No, Amanda’s friend. But now she’s got this fever and they checked her into the hospital. This morning, I went to Wal-Mart and stocked up on water and non-perishables and some camping gear, but I didn’t know what ammunition to buy —“

“B-Mac, whoa—” Doolittle interrupts him, but Brandon keeps going.

“I know. It’s crazy, but I felt like I needed to get here and tell you this. Something’s not right and I have this feeling of dread, like this is the end or something.”

They stare at him, then exchange a look.

“No, this has nothing to do with the brain injury,” he says adamantly, but maybe he’s not so sure. Doolittle opens his mouth to say something, and that’s when Josh Reddick storms into the clubhouse with a wild look in his eyes.

“Turn on the news,” he commands, and Michael Choice reaches up to flick on the overhead set. It’s an older flatscreen that doesn’t show any picture in its bottom left corner from where someone before all of their times had thrown a nerf football a little too hard. _Mark Ellis would know who did it,_ Brandon thinks, somewhat absurdly, and then his world tilts.

His phone rings as his eyes are glued to the screen and he answers it, unthinking. “Amanda?”

_“Brandon? Brandon, where are you, I called the clubhouse and they said you weren’t there—”_

“I had to talk to Doolittle.”

_“You have to get out of there, you have to get home. Have you seen?”_

He watches the screen, sees the replay of the impossible for the third time. The … _person_ on the screen, hitherto unmoving, stirs. Sits. Turns to the camera and reaches out with unseeing eyes. Growls.

_“Brandon? Brandon, Sarah is dead.”_

The person, the _dead_ person, catches the arm of the cameraman. The camera falls to the ground. Then blood splashes the lens.

“Not for long.”

_“Brandon—”_

“We’re leaving. Stay where you are, I’m going to deal with things here at the field and I’ll be home in an hour. Pack up Hobbes, get everything you’re going to need.”

_“But they’re saying to stay indoors, not to panic—”_

Brandon’s heart seizes and he knows, without question, that there is every reason to panic, every reason to _leave,_ and they will never be back. But he can’t say it out loud, not yet. “I know. I love you. I’ll be home in an hour, you’re going to pack up.” He hangs up.

The rest of the clubhouse is staring at the screen. Brandon surveys their faces. There is blank acceptance, horror, disbelief, and tracks of tears shining on some. He is startled to realize that Eric Chavez is standing in the doorway.

_I guess when the world goes to shit you want to be where you belong._

The thought comes unbidden to his mind, but he realizes that it’s true, and it’s what he’s been feeling since he woke up. That’s what led him here.

“Fuck this, I’m out.”

That’s Sonny Gray. He makes a move for the door but the Single-A catcher—what’s his name? Ortiz?—catches his arm and shakes his head. Sonny resists and then they’re off in a corner by themselves. His teammates—former, he corrects hurriedly out of habit, but feels the distinction is unnecessary now—are on their phones, calling wives and girlfriends and parents and Brandon realizes that Doolittle is calling his name.

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

Eyes are on him, full of expectation. Reddick has made his way to them and Brandon raises a hand to trace the scar on his skull. His mind is racing now. “I’m going to find Bob. Get your shit together here—don’t leave behind your bats—and get to your apartments. Pack, meet me at my place. We’ll regroup from there.”

“Where are we going?”

“East.”

\--

Bob Melvin is in his office. It takes him a minute to realize that Brandon shouldn’t be there. His television is on and they’re showing the same clip again, this time from another angle and you can see the person, dead but not dead, fall to the ground from a bullet to the head.

“Bob—“

“Who’s going with you?”

“Trav, Reddick, Doolittle. Maybe more.”

“Selig has suspended spring training, since the CDC is suggesting that everyone stay away from crowded areas.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Billy’s heading north. I’m going with him.”

Brandon nods. “Listen, I—”

Melvin cuts him off. “Go. Now.”

He does.

\--

When he gets back to the A’s clubhouse he finds more Diamondbacks than just Chavez. Trevor Cahill is there with Brad Ziegler and Cliff Pennington. They have their gear bags over their shoulders and car keys in hand. Chavez is the only one of them still hanging back, and there is an unanchored look in his eyes.

“Chavvy, are you coming?”

“I think—I need to get the others.”

“Arizona?”

He shakes his head. “Z. Crosby. Huston. Ellis.” He pauses, flipping through his mental Rolodex. “Mark.”

Brandon nods curtly. “Get them on the phone. Tell them the plan. My place.”

As Brandon lopes through the visiting players’ parking lot, it never occurs to him to head back to his own clubhouse.

\--

The panic has set in by the time he pulls up in front of his rental. Amanda has pulled her car into the garage and all the shades are down. He unlocks the front door and while swinging it open almost gets his skull bashed in by a baseball bat.

“Jesus Christ, you scared me!” Amanda yells, Hobbes barking frantically.

“What the fuck, Amanda! You knew I was coming home! Would a looter have a key?”

“I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“The guys are meeting here, then we’re going to hit a Wal-Mart on our way out of town. Bob said Selig suspended spring training, the CDC is saying not to panic. The roads were pretty clear, but I don’t think that’s going to last for long.” He’s walking through the house, scanning every room for anything they might need on the road. Amanda is following close behind with her bat, Hobbes on her heels.

“Which guys?”

“I’m not exactly sure. We’ll find out when they get here. Chavvy’s gathering up his old crew, though.”

“Crew?”

“Yeah, big fucking reunion of former Athletics, seems like. When I got to the clubhouse today Doo was talking to Trav about the CDC and these incurable infections and transferring immunity to other bacteria and—“ He pauses in the kitchen and opens the knife drawer. “I’d rather be over-prepared and feel foolish later for freaking out than to end up in West Texas starving and dehydrated.”

“Why would we end up in West Texas?” Amanda asks cautiously.

“We’re heading east.”

“Why east? Why can’t we just stay here, Brandon? I don’t understand why we have to leave.”  
Brandon turns his attention to Amanda and rests his hands on her shoulders. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she says, and he hears her sincerity.

He looks into her eyes. “I woke up this morning and went to Wal-Mart. I stocked up on non-perishables and water. I went to the ballpark to find Doolittle and Reddick. I don’t know why I had to find Sean, but I know I wanted to find Josh because he knows about guns. I told them all to meet me here and when they asked me where we were going, I did not hesitate. East. We’re going east. I don’t know why we need to go east, but I’m going to trust this instinct. I need you to help me trust this instinct.”

She looks dubious, and he can see her eyes tracking along his scar.

“No, it’s not — well maybe it’s — whatever it _is,_ it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”

“Yet. Because what, because it’s been telling you to go grocery shopping and say hi to your buddies?” Amanda pulls away from him and picks up Hobbes, holds her close. “Brandon, I don’t know about this. The CDC says —”

 

 

\---

They’re crowded into the living room, about fifteen of them all-told. Chavez has Mulder on speakerphone and when Brandon closes his eyes for a moment about half of them disappear. He doesn’t know what that means, but Reddick is talking, leaning against the wall by the flatscreen in his sleeveless camouflage tank, his bulldogs lying at his feet and Blackley nearby, idly petting across their backs.

“Nine millimeter ammunition has been flying off the shelves for months now, so there’s not a lot of it left in the gun shops. We probably want to —”

“Can we discuss what’s going on, first?” asks Bobby Crosby. He has a hand raised in front of him, stopping Reddick’s words. 

“People are rising from the dead, did you not see it on the television? What’s there to discuss?” Blackley never had patience for having to restate the obvious.

“I’m not fucking _blind._ But I don’t know why that means we necessarily have to arm up and skip town —”

“We don’t have the _time_ to hash out what’s happening out on the streets,” Brandon interrupts.

“And how do you know that? We’re all here because what? You’re somehow more qualified than the CDC at telling us what we should be doing?”

“You don’t have to be here, Bobby. No one’s forcing you to be here.” That’s Chavez, patient and quiet.

“Yeah? And what else am I supposed to do, huh?” He’s sounding more and more hysterical.

\--------  
Then I thought maybe I would write it second person from Reddick's POV, so here's that.  
\--------

What you’ve seen is burned onto the back of your eyelids. It’s all happening so fast and the only thoughts in your head are get to the ballpark followed immediately by leave. 

You’re supposed to be playing right field against the Arizona Diamondbacks today, but you know that you’ve played your last baseball game. 

You storm into the home clubhouse at Phoenix Municipal. You know you look wild—even without the beard your eyes would give you away. “Turn on the news,” you order, and Michael Choice does. He reaches up and hits the power button on the old flatscreen that has a defective bottom left corner from some incident with a nerf football thrown a little too hard at just the wrong angle. At least, that’s how Penny told it last year, but you’re pretty sure that had happened back when Chavez was still around, so Penny was probably wrong.

You scan their faces as they watch the gruesome video clip over and over, the panicked words of the newscaster washing over them. Most of their eyes betray an uncomprehending look, but not Brandon McCarthy’s. He looks almost … resigned. Also, what the fuck is he doing here?

“Fuck this, I’m out. I’ve got to get Sonny.” That’s the Double-A catcher—what’s his name? Ortiz?—heading to the door. “I’ll be back. If—if there’s going to be a plan, I want in.” He says this to McCarthy. There it is. Just like that, everyone’s eyes are on McCarthy. You make your way to him, your roommate there with his arms crossed over his chest and Doolittle standing between them both. McCarthy raises a hand to trace the scar on his skull. “I’m going to find Bob. Get your shit together here—don’t leave behind your bats—and get to your apartments. Pack, meet me at my place. We’ll regroup from there.”

“Where are we going?”

“East.”

\--

You go with McCarthy to Melvin’s office. It takes him a minute to realize that Brandon shouldn’t be there. His television is on and they’re showing the same clip again, this time from another angle and you can see the person, dead but not dead, fall to the ground from a bullet to the head. Your stomach roils and you realize they’re talking.

“Bob—“

“Who’s going with you?”

“Trav, Reddick, Doolittle. Maybe more.”

“Selig suspended play, since the CDC is advising everyone to stay indoors and out of public  
spaces.” He raises an eyebrow. 

“What are you going to do?”

“Billy’s heading north. I’m going with him.”

Brandon nods. “Listen, I—“

Melvin cuts him off. “Go. Now.”

You do.

\--

When you get back to the clubhouse you find more Diamondbacks. Trevor Cahill is there with Brad Ziegler and Cliff Pennington. Eric Chavez emerges from the hallway. They have their gear bags over their shoulders and car keys in hand. Chavez is the only one of them still hanging back, and there is an unanchored look in his eyes.

“Chavvy, are you coming?”

“I think—I need to get the others.”

“Arizona?”

He shakes his head. “Z. Crosby. Huston. Ellis.” He pauses, flipping through his mental Rolodex. “Travis Buck.” And then, “Mark.”

Brandon nods curtly. “Get them on the phone. Tell them the plan. My place.” He turns to you, finally. You haven’t said a word to him today. You’ve accepted his leadership unquestioningly. There’s a question in his eyes and you can read it.

“Just a nine millimeter and a shotgun. Plenty of ammo for both, but that’s not going to last us long if it gets hairy out there.” You look over to Travis, nod at him. “We’ve been out to the range, so unless anyone else has better skills, I’d be most comfortable with us two being armed.”

 

 

Zito pulls Chavez into a bear hug. You can see his lips move next to the infielder’s ear, but he could be saying anything. You look away when they pull apart and Zito drops a kiss to Chavez’s forehead. None of you will see him again, you’re sure. You hope he finds his family, but heading into a population center like San Diego is a death wish.


End file.
